


Aught else might it be

by zinjadu



Series: Wed to Blight [18]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Awkward Alistair (Dragon Age), Awkward Conversations, Awkward Crush, F/M, Haircuts, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-03
Updated: 2019-03-03
Packaged: 2019-11-08 21:20:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17988713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zinjadu/pseuds/zinjadu
Summary: Alistair's hair is getting long, Caitwyn offers to cut it.  Then things take a sharp turn to awkward mutual crushing.  It was only supposed to be a haircut.





	Aught else might it be

Alistair scrubbed a hand through his hair and grimaced.  It was getting long again. He  _ hated _ having long hair; it made him look too much like Cailan.  In the monastery, the brothers would cut each other’s hair every other month, and later in the Wardens he had been able to pay one of the washerwomen to cut his hair now and again.  But now he was without brothers or washerwomen, so he’d just have to do it himself.

 

If there were scissors to be had.

 

With narrowed eyes he considered his best bet for obtaining said tools while they walked to the south towards Honnleath.  Supposedly a golem was to be found there, and after seeing Caitwyn turn into a golem in the Fade, having a golem on their side sounded like a good idea.  They couldn’t become Blighted, at least. Or he didn’t think so. Probably not.

 

Now, back to the problem at hand.  He needed scissors. Sten probably didn’t carry any, and if Morrigan did he wasn’t going to ask her.  She might stab him with them and complain that he’d gotten blood on them. Wynne did have scissors, but they were for sewing and knitting.  Zevran might have some, but Alistair wasn’t prepared to ask an assassin for a bladed implement. Caitwyn didn’t have any. He knew that. They’d fled Ostagar with only their armor and weapons, and he didn’t think she’d picked any up in the time since.  That left Leliana, and really, he should have started there. She was Orlesian, even though she claimed to be Fereldan on her mother’s side. Probably had the ability to go to a grand ball at the drop of a hat, her.

 

She was ranging behind them on Caitwyn’s orders to watch their backs while they walked, so he waited until they stopped for a bite to eat come noon.   They took shelter from the summer sun under a copse of trees, and while they passed around rations of dried meat, cheese, and a bit of bread, he sidled up to Leliana.

 

At his approach, she smiled up at him in a silent invitation to join her.  He sat down next to her under the tall aspen, glad to be back in lands where there were proper trees.  They’d have to backtrack up north to reach the entrance to Orzammar, but with the horde of darkspawn spilling west, it was better to go south now rather than later.

 

“Is there something I can help you with, Alistair?” she asked between dainty bites of bread.  Her eyes flickered to where Caitwyn sat, pouring over one of those math books Wynne had gotten her, a portion of cheese held halfway to her mouth.  Math couldn’t be  _ that _ interesting.  Surely.

 

“What makes you think I’m going to ask you for help?” he retorted, though he couldn’t hide how his voice rose a little.  He dragged his gaze away from his fellow Warden— _ fellow Warden, Alistair, stop this _ —and did not think about how her dark skin warmed in the sunlight.  So he had slightly different thoughts about her. She was a pretty woman, but he hadn’t changed how he acted around her.  Had he? No, he hadn’t. They were friends. That was all. She had remembered their conversation about why he hadn’t told her about his parentage earlier, and she hadn’t changed how she’d treated him.  Still friendly, in her habitually distant sort of way, only allowing small glimmers of herself to shine through when she wasn’t trying so hard to be the Warden she thought she had to be.

 

Though he’d nursed a tiny little hope that she might just treat him differently.  Just a little. But not like a prince. Maybe like… what, then? He didn’t know the answer to that.

 

“Oh, no reason.”  Leliana drew out the words and amusement danced in her blue eyes.  Alistair fought down a sigh. That would only fuel her. Instead, he cleared his throat, and tried to put the unhelpful thoughts out of mind.

 

Even though he knew they would come back.  They wouldn’t  _ go away _ .

 

“Just need a pair of scissors, actually.  Getting a bit shaggy, and really it's awful to have long hair under a helm.  Especially in this heat.” There, he had kept his voice even and normal. He added a self-deprecating little smirk for good measure.  A bright chuckle escaped Leliana, and she waved her hand as if it were of no matter.

 

“You are lucky I believe in being prepared for all grooming emergencies,” she said airily before giggling at herself.  He chuckled at the joke, but then her brows drew down and her mouth pursed with thought. “Though I hope you are not going to cut your own hair.”

 

“Uh, why not?”

 

“Because you cannot see the back of your own head!  You could make a mistake!”

 

“Ah, our dear bard is correct, Alistair,” Zevran chimed in from across the little glade.  He gestured with a heel of bread to emphasize the point. “You would not wish to ruin your handsome visage with a ragged hair cut.”

 

Heat ran up his neck and cheeks all the way to his ears.   _ Maker _ , didn’t any of them have anything better to do?  Now  _ Zevran _ had noticed something!  No, maybe that was just Zevran being Zevran?  Alistair didn’t know the Crow well enough by half to be sure.  Besides, he kept flirting with Caitwyn every chance he got. She’d told Alistair she was ignoring it in the hopes that the Crow would stop on his own.  Alistair had wanted to point out that she was going to have to  _ tell  _ him to stop, but he wasn’t sure if that was friend-type advice or if he wanted to say that for other reasons.  Reasons he didn’t want to look at too closely. 

 

But he wanted to tell her  _ some _ things.  But what sort of things could he say?  Should he say?  _ Something _ fluttered in his chest and made his stomach flip over when his thoughts strayed to her— 

 

And there he was, thinking the wrong things again.  At least Leliana and Zevran had continued to harp on him about cutting his own hair so they hadn’t noticed his distraction.  They were still going when the sound of a book slamming shut drove them both to silence. Alistair turned his head to see Caitwyn regarding him with a tilt to her head and an air of examination about her.

 

“You wear your hair like my cousin, and I’ve been cutting his hair for years.  I can cut yours when we stop for the night, if you like,” she offered. He doubted Caitwyn thought anything of the offer, but he could  _ feel _ Leliana’s smug amusement radiating off of her like a heated brick.

 

“That’s alright, you don’t have to,” he demurred.  That would be bad. That would be very bad. He could train with her, try to understand their Warden abilities together, could fight by her side.  All of that was easy, but the prospect of her being that close to him, and she’d be  _ touching _ him.  Oh Maker, this was a bad idea.  Very bad idea.

 

“Think I’m gonna dock your ears?” she asked, her lilt dancing over her words.  Her expression was bland, but her green eyes glinted with humor. Probably some obscure elf joke in there, but he didn’t have the capacity to decipher it right now.

 

“No!  I just… you don’t have to.  It’s not important. Forget I asked, everyone, please,” he said, trying not to whine.  

 

To his everlasting embarrassment no one forgot, and when they stopped for the night he was led to a place to sit like a lamb to the slaughter.

 

* * *

 

Caitwyn shook her head at Alistair’s back.  He sat in front of her on a log, his shoulders slumped and a scrap of fabric around his shoulders to keep hair from going down the back of his shirt.  Thanks to the long summer evenings, she had more than enough light to see by. The sun was still fully above the horizon, and the trees here dotted the plain in irregular clumps instead of being a proper forest so nothing blocked the light.  Not even the firebugs were out yet.

 

Leliana was making supper tonight, and a waft of roasted meat made her stomach rumble.  Knowing why she was constantly hungry didn’t make it any easier, but since supper wasn’t ready yet and she had said she’d do this, here she was.  Caitwyn judged cutting his hair wouldn’t take much time. Unless he fussed like Soris had done. 

 

Scissors in her right hand, she ran the fingers of her left through his ruddy hair, finding the part and eyeballing how short she’d cut it.  Maybe a bit shorter than when they had first met? Give him an extra week or two before he had to have it cut again.

 

“Um, thank you for this,” he said quietly.  He glanced up at her, eyebrows arched with shy gratitude.  It struck her that he was so thankful for such a simple thing.  How often had Soris carried on to get her to cut his hair, had badgered her into making him look good for  _ the ladies _ ?  Never mind that even among the girls in the Alienage they weren’t related to, none of them had been interested in her poor cousin.  She wondered who had cut Alistair’s hair before this? No mother, sister or cousin, she knew that. A mother gone when he was a babe, a sister he’d never met, and no other family save the one that had never acknowledged him.

 

She suddenly thought very ill of the dead, and her fingers curled around the metal handle of the scissors so tight they ached.  That wasn’t family.

 

“Not a problem,” she said, forcing brightness into her tone and a smile on her face.  “I told you, used to cut my cousin’s hair. Now, eyes front,” she ordered, moving his head so he was facing the quick running creek.  He tensed at her touch, and he started to bounce his leg like he did whenever he had to sit still for too long. Oh Maker, he was going to be worse than Soris if he couldn’t be still for this.

 

“Right, sorry,” he said quickly, like he’d been caught with his hand in the jam jar.  Such a strange human, she thought as she took half a finger’s length off the top. 

 

“Oh, you’re fine.”  She couldn’t suppress a smile and an amused huff as she thought of how she’d learned things the hard way.  Or, rather, Soris had since he had to live with her mistakes while his hair grew back. “My cousin used to fuss a lot.  Wanted to see what I was doing while I was doing it. Not sure how we’d manage that since we only had a hand mirror we borrowed from our auntie.”

 

“Well, uh, I’ll try to be still, then.  Wouldn’t want to try the patience of the woman with the sharp implements near my head.”  He laughed at his own joke, which was usual, but it sounded a touch forced to her ears. Maybe he  _ was _ nervous about a woman with sharp things near his head?  Well, he’d be fine. She’d only ever cut Soris the once, and that had been on accident no matter what her cousin and claimed.

 

“You’re already doing better than Soris, because he never figured that one out.”  Bending at the knees, she lined up her next cut and took off a bit more. Her eyes narrowed and she scrubbed her fingers through his hair again.  “You’ve got a weird part. Swirls around back here and wants to stick up. This might take a bit longer than I thought.”

 

“I now know more about the back of my head than I thought possible,” he drawled, sounding a bit more like his usual self.  She laughed freely, easily, not stopping to think about how she should react but more simply  _ being _ .  There was no reason to completely hide who she was, and the shadow claws of her own past no longer held her tight in their grip.  They would maybe always be there, but talking with him, just being around him, was like standing in a spot of sunshine.

 

She blinked, not sure where  _ that _ had come from.  Refocusing on the task at hand, she trimmed the top a bit more before cleaning up the back and sides as best she could.  It was easier than she’d expected to trim around his small, round ears. They were even kind of cute, with the little freckles along the curve of them.  Though she wasn’t sure how he heard anything with them. Then she circled around to face him and knelt in front of him to measure out that foof of hair that always stuck up no matter what.

 

“Alright, almost done, I promise,” she said, and shifted to look him in the eye.  That was a mistake. 

 

His eyes, often teasing and unserious, were a warm hazel in the light of the slowly setting sun.  Warm and gentle. Ubidden, she recalled her mother’s words— _ hope for a gentle man, little shadow _ —and another pair of gentle eyes that had gazed at her with cautious hope, eyes had clouded over in death before she could know the man behind them.  But she knew the man behind the eyes she looked into now.

 

Like a rung bell, the moment hung in the air as she suddenly couldn’t stop noticing little things about him.  The freckles that dusted his long nose, or the way his mouth curved in a crooked grin, or the little tuft of hair he cultivated under his bottom lip though the rest of his stubble remained just that.  

 

This was not good, she told herself.  Her cheeks warmed, and she was deeply grateful for having her mother’s complexion just then.  

 

It was a cascade, all the things she’d seen but never  _ noticed _ until now, until she’d been this close.  She stood up abruptly and fixed her eyes on his hair.  His dark auburn hair that was softer than she’d expected it to be and stuck up at odd angles all the time, like it was daring her to smooth it down.  She tried to find a safe place for her eyes to rest, but there wasn’t one. His broad shoulders and staggering height had been intimidating to her when they had first met, but along the way she had begun to find them both reassuring.  His hands rested limply on his knees, but even his hands were nice. How were  _ hands _ nice?  Long fingered and if not deft like her own, they were strong and expressive.

 

Thankful that he couldn’t see her desperately wandering and panicked eyes, she quickly finished trimming his bangs and stepped back away from him.  Her hands clutched the scissors to her chest, and she forced herself to stillness, to calm, to ignore the completely unfamiliar flutter behind her breastbone and dryness in her mouth.  

 

“That’s it, all done,” she said, though it was like speaking through treacle.  Like he had no idea what had just happened, he briefly met her eyes and a blush crept up his neck.  Oh Andraste help her, what if he had noticed her noticing him? Surely that wasn’t allowed. They were both Wardens, and he would tell her as much.  But he only smiled, that shy, crooked smile that crinkled those kind eyes, and reached up to test how much hair she’d cut away.

 

“Thank you, um.  I’m sure it’s great.”  His voice was oddly thready, but she had bigger concerns than his behavior.  Namely, her own.

 

“Well, supper’ll be soon.  Better go wash up.” It wasn’t much of an excuse, but it served her purpose of  _ getting away _ well enough.  Away from him, this would all stop.  It would stop and never, ever come back.  She didn’t want this, not now, maybe not ever.  Those shadow claws wrapped around her again, digging into her chest, and she fled the sun.

 

* * *

 

Alistair let out a slow, ragged breath as Caitwyn trotted away to wash up for supper.  He dragged the scrap of fabric from around his shoulders and tried to let his heart settle down into a steady rhythm.  Right now it beat so wildly he was afraid it would jump out of his chest.

 

_ Maker _ , but that had been torture.  Wonderful, terrifying torture.

 

Her clever hands in his hair had been far, far too delightful from the first, and he’d tried everything he could think of to keep himself distracted.  Disapproving Chantry Mothers, getting clouted in the ear by the stable master, the disgusting pustules that had covered the Circle Tower, and oh yes, the undead rising up stinking and horrific out of Lake Calenhad.  A good one, that.

 

He had been able to block out the feel of her fingers in his hair, but then she had knelt in front of him and with her face so close to his, there was no escaping how pretty she was.  No, how beautiful. His breath had caught in his throat and he hadn’t believed he had only thought she was pretty. With those eyes as green as the heart of a forest lit by her bright, clever mind, her dusky skin soaking up the sunlight like a still pool, and the dark bramble of curls that his fingers itched to touch.  He could have reached out and taken one curl and twined it around his finger. 

 

Then she’d stood up and that was  _ somehow worse _ .  Because then he was confronted with her… shape.  Out of her armor she wore a simple belted tunic and leggings and even though she was slim, she had curves enough.  The modest swell of her breasts had been even with his eyes, and he had tried to find somewhere safe to look only to follow the flare of her hip down the line of her legs.  To add insult to injury, the scent of her had filled his nose, warm skin, just a touch of sweat, and lilac. How did she smell like lilac? That was simply not fair.

 

He shifted uncomfortably, his pants awkwardly, unfortunately tight, and still not completely recovered.  Desperately, he tired to think of her as just a friend, a fellow Warden.  _ A friend _ .  Surely she thought of him that way.  She’d been  _ my cousin _ this and  _ Soris _ that.  It was just a haircut.  Nothing she didn’t do for her family, so that’s what he was to her.  Just her brother in Grey, as Duncan would have said.

 

Dragging himself to from the log he’d used as a bench he clomped to the creek, knelt on the rocky bank, and promptly ducked his head in the swift running water.  He held his head under for as long as he could stand and came up gasping for air. Nope, his head still wasn’t clear. Cleaned off of bits of hair, but still swirling with thoughts of her.  

 

Hunching forward with his hands on his thighs, he wished he could put all these feelings inside a little box, put that box away, and never think about it again.  Maybe if she was only beautiful, he could. But it wasn’t merely her face or her rare and hardwon full smiles that turned him again and again in her direction. 

 

His mother’s medallion swung free of his shirt, dislodged by his dunk in the water, and he laid his fingers on its familiar design.  Caitwyn had found it—while she’d been  _ having a rummage _ , she’d said,  _ old habit, really can’t help myself sometimes _ —and there it had been in her hand.  His first thought had been of Arl Eamon of repairing it and saving it for him, but then he had belatedly caught on to the fact that Caitwyn had paid attention to the words that come out of his mouth.  Paid attention and  _ done something _ about them.  

 

No one had  _ ever _ done that.  Maybe Duncan a little, and some of the other Wardens, but she  _ cared _ .  He thought so at least.  Cared in a way he couldn’t remember anyone else caring before.  Cared about him not because of  _ what _ he was, but cared about  _ him _ .  As he already was.

 

Fool, idiot, don’t be stupid, he berated himself.  She doesn’t see you that way. She doesn’t. She can’t.  Who would without you being the bastard prince? Liking you for yourself?  Ridiculous. 

 

Even though she’d already said as much.

 

But something was building in his chest, expanding, growing, taking root.  Something warm and steady but also wild and unsure; caught between a spark that would start a fire and the uncertainty of the tinder catching.  Words tumbled through his head, disjointed and unfamiliar, too much but not enough at the same time. Words he wanted to say, but had no idea how to say them.  Couldn’t even imagine saying to anyone. Not without them laughing in his face. Or a certain someone laughing. What if she doesn’t laugh, a cruel part of him whispered.  What if she smiles?

 

That was too much to hope for.

 

Besides, what could he even say?  

 

Absently, he tucked his mother’s amulet back inside his shirt, and inspiration fizzed and pinged in his mind.  He could give her a gift, like she had given him. But he didn’t have anything from her mother. She’d lost her mother’s boots at Ostagar, she’d said.  All he had was his armor and weapons, maybe a bit of cheese and a few other odds and ends.

 

And the rose from Lothering.  He still had that. That could work.  A little wilted, but still red and smelling sweet, he’d managed to keep it alive in spite of his black thumb.  It was the nicest thing he had to his name, such as it was. Tomorrow they would reach Honnleath, and he resolved to talk to her once they were done there before he lost his nerve.

 

He hoped he— _ it _ —would be enough.

 

* * *

 

Caitwyn rolled around in her tent trying to find a comfortable position on her pile of blankets so she could sleep.  Honnleath was half a day’s walk away, and she had to be well rested for whatever they might encounter there. She grumbled nonsensically to herself in her private cocoon of canvas, grateful to have that much privacy back even if was stuffy and close inside of it thanks to the summer heat and Maethor’s warm bulk.  Her dog raised his head tiredly at her restlessness but nevertheless regarded her with concerned eyes.

 

Twisting around to face him and pat his head, Caitwyn whispered into the night, “I can trust you, can’t I, boy?”

 

Maethor wuffed his assurance, and Caitwyn smiled.  Wiggling closer to him, she let her eyes go out of focus as she spoke.

 

“What do I do?  Ignore it like Zevran’s flirting?  Meet it head on like Sten’s training?  What even is  _ it _ ?”  She kept her voice low and started to scratch Maethor’s chin.   _ It _ .  That sudden sense of seeing him all at once as though she hadn’t seen him before at all.  The warmth that filled her chest when he smiled at her that sat at odds with the whirling vortex of thoughts that threatened to drag her down.   _ Never trust humans, and never their men. _  The commandment of her mother, her aunties, her grannies, slithered down her back like a snake, and she shivered in spite of the stuffy heat in the tent.

 

Caitwyn buried her face against Maethor’s side, and he whimpered his sympathy for her plight.

 

“I was just cutting his hair!” she whined into her dog’s fur.  How had a simple domestic task, one she’d done a hundred times before, get turned sideways and batter at her like this?  Maker, she needed sleep. She needed to sleep and stop thinking about this. Push it away. She’d never been bothered by these kinds of feelings before, had never even  _ noticed _ anyone before him.  So she could stop noticing and that would be that.  Snuff it out, like kicking dirt over a fire.

 

But the memory of being so close, so close and unafraid for his unserious gentle eyes, hung suspended in her mind like a water droplet frozen in time.


End file.
